"I noticed you're drinking a mocha today, not an Americano," the girl said, studying the color of his coffee. "What made you change your mind?"
"Oh, if you were here—" he said slowly. "I wouldn't refuse a little something sweet."
Hermione smiled, a bright, smug gleam in her brown eyes.
"Good. I've always thought you should drink something other than an Americano. Since you've been so good, here's a reward for you—" Hermione took a cardboard box out of her beaded purse, set it on the coffee table, and pushed it toward Draco. "Open it."
Draco raised an eyebrow, in no hurry to open the box, and instead turned to look at the girl beside him.
Her outfit today was quite novel.
She wore an apricot-colored French-style flat cap with white ribbons, and her thick brown hair was braided into a plait, the end of which hung down past her milky-white collarbone, the rest covered by a thin white lace tank top with wide shoulder straps.
Quite beautiful curves, he couldn't help but think, his eyes a little dazed.
The girl's left cheek warmed under his gaze.
She took a sip of cappuccino to cover her embarrassment, then began to urge him on.
"Draco, what are you looking at? Look at the box!"
Draco coughed lightly, his gaze sweeping over her legs, bare beneath light blue denim shorts—slender, fair, and long. He could probably think of many words to describe them, if only he had the chance to touch them.
"I see the mark has disappeared. Good." He paused, satisfied, then looked away and turned his attention to the box.
A blush crept onto Hermione's face. "Yes," she said softly. "The ointment works really well. Thank you."
Draco said nothing. He glanced at her with his light gray eyes and smiled, clearly in a good mood.
His gaze was simply unfair. If she kept looking at him, she wouldn't manage to achieve her grand goal for the day, Hermione thought.
Even so, she couldn't help but smile back at him, her eyes full of expectation, and gave his arm a shake.
"Look!"
"What is this?" Draco finally showed some interest in the box.
He examined it for a long moment, turning it over and over, before asking her to confirm one thing. "For me?"
"Of course!" Hermione said, resting her chin on her hand and smiling at the boy beside her.
This hesitant Draco Malfoy—wanting to open something but not quite daring to—was a rare and endearing sight.
Encouraged by her gaze, he tentatively opened the box and found a black rectangular object lying inside.
"A Muggle phone?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, please accept it!" Hermione said happily. "I've thought of a compromise. If we're too far apart, we can use this to contact each other. It won't work at Hogwarts, of course, but you'll inevitably pass through Muggle areas when you travel around Europe, so it might come in handy now and then, don't you think?"
"That's a clever idea." He held the phone in his long, slender fingers, studying the buttons intently. "The only problem is, I'm not very good at using it."
"It's not hard to learn at all. Don't worry about that. Here's the instruction manual, see? It explains all the uses and precautions!" Hermione said enthusiastically. "I can teach you how to use it right now."
"Now?"
"At the very least I can teach you how to make a call. I've already saved all the numbers, and sorted out a phone card for you too. The only thing you need to watch is the battery," she said cheerfully. "You have lights at home, right? So there's definitely electricity and an outlet. Do you remember what an outlet looks like? Just look carefully…"
Draco was both amused and exasperated.
Hermione always seemed keen to introduce him to Muggle items—first it was flashlights, then Walkmans, then hair dryers—and now cell phones.
She seemed to have a particular fixation on "surrounding Draco Malfoy with Muggle objects."
Not that those things were entirely useless. They had their uses—just barely.
"All right, then teach me how to make a call first." A flicker of doubt crossed his face. "This thing is so small, smaller than a two-way mirror—can it really make a call?"
"Of course." Hermione pulled out a phone in the exact same style as his and gestured at him cheerfully. "I'll call you right now and see—"
A boy raised in a wizarding family might be wary of Muggle phones, but a boy in love—whatever his background—finds it hard to resist the appeal of "matching items for couples."
What did it matter if they were Muggle or not? A faint blush crossed Draco's face, his mood brightening like the morning weather, and he agreed at once. "Okay, let's try it."
It was still early morning, and though the sun shone brightly, it wasn't very hot yet.
The birds liked to hop along the branches at this hour, singing a few songs for the young couple puzzling over their "Muggle phone"; later, they would retreat to the cool, green hollows of the trees and grass to escape the worst of the heat.
When Draco had met Hermione earlier at the quiet corner coffee shop, he hadn't expected a "Muggle phone tutorial."
This wasn't quite what he'd pictured for their time together. He had imagined they'd talk about Muggle drama and literature—about that man named Shakespeare who wrung tears from his audiences with his tragedies.
But she hadn't mentioned Muggle theater at all—she'd led him straight to Muggle technology.
This unpredictable girl! She always did the opposite of what he expected, as if she enjoyed catching him off guard.
As he listened to her explain how to use the phone, Draco admitted to himself that it felt rather nice.
She walked him through something new with such care and earnestness that he found it strangely interesting.
Back at Hogwarts, in Diagon Alley, or in Hogsmeade, he was usually the one teaching her things. Now that their roles were reversed, he found it a novel experience.
He liked it whenever Hermione opened up to him, in any way at all.
"Look, you just press this button and it takes you to this screen, and then here..." She walked him through it patiently, step by step.
Draco watched her with a smile and nodded along.
He also liked the way she spoke to him so patiently.
"Do you understand?" she asked, her bright eyes fixed on him.
"Mhm," he replied quickly.
His mind wasn't entirely on the phone, though. He kept noticing other details—her smooth arm pressed against his, a fragrance drifting freely from her exposed neck, tugging at his senses.
"Isn't it simple?" She finally stopped fussing over his phone and turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling. "Aren't Muggle things rather useful?"
"Oh, yeah." He stared hard at the phone screen and swallowed.
Pleased by his answer, she smiled—lines spreading quickly beneath her eyes in a curve so pleasant it left him oddly thirsty.
He stole a glance at her. In the sunlight she glowed, fair-skinned, her lips a vivid red. For some reason she carried a certain French allure today—though she herself was completely unaware of it, Draco thought, his cheeks warming slightly.
Hermione was pleased about one thing in particular: Draco had called the Muggles' cell phone "rather good" instead of "barely usable."
Today his face showed none of the usual "disapproval" or "disdain" toward Muggle things, but something closer to acceptance—and was that a touch of shyness?
In any case, his prejudice against Muggles was finally starting to shift.
A good sign, wasn't it? she thought, satisfied.
By the time they finally finished fiddling with the phone, the sun stood high overhead.
The birdsong had stopped, and only cicadas chirped in the trees now.
The streets grew crowded; performers in outlandish costumes strolled in twos and threes toward the other side of the road. At the coffee shop's outdoor seating, waiters were opening large umbrellas for shade.
The air had turned hot and dry.
"So, what's the plan for today?" Draco's eyes flickered as he tucked the phone into his pouch and steered the conversation forward.
Sunbathing with her would be nice, but he had to consider the risk of her wilting in the heat—not a good idea.
"I'd originally wanted to take you to see *The Merchant of Venice*." Hermione's eyes darted about, as though she were plotting something. "But then I thought, maybe I should show you something different. Draco, didn't you use to complain that pictures in the Muggle world never move?"
"I believe I said something like that." Draco studied her intently, a small thrill rising in him. "You actually remember something I mentioned in passing?"
"I remember everything you've ever said," Hermione said casually, as if it were nothing at all.
Oddly, this didn't make Draco feel smug.
Her smile was radiant, but her attention had already drifted elsewhere. "Today I want to show you moving pictures from the Muggle world—movies! I'd bet you've never seen one in the wizarding world."
"All right," Draco said slowly, not particularly caring what a "movie" was. His mind was still caught on her earlier words—*I remember everything you've ever said*—and a quiet happiness rose and swayed gently in his chest.
"Then let's not just stand here—let's go!" Hermione stood, smiled cheerfully at him, and took his hand. "I remember there's a cinema near here. A few films are showing right now… I hope there's something you'll like."
"I'm sure there will be. There are types I like." Draco looked at her pink cheeks beneath the brim of her hat and laughed softly.
Hermione's happiness only grew at his smile. She laced her fingers through his and pulled her boy into the flow of the street, like two daytime shooting stars merging into one dazzling streak.
The cinema was pleasantly air-conditioned, the sweet smell of fresh popcorn hanging in the air. The French clerk behind the counter wiped the surface listlessly, yawning as she debated whether to nap behind the counter or read a few more pages of her unfinished romance novel.
In her experience, no one came through that door so early—tourists were usually just sitting down to breakfast, and locals were still asleep. The real rush wouldn't start until late afternoon.
But today, someone was determined to give her extra work first thing in the morning. A young couple pushed open the cinema doors.
*Probably here to ask for directions*, the clerk thought, glancing at them a couple of times.
The girl walked in first. Her hat shadowed her face, but the clerk could see that her legs were long and lovely, her skin fair—she didn't look like someone who spent her days out in the sun.
The boy who held the door for her was tall and lean, with striking platinum-blond hair. He had an elegant bearing, and his eyes never left the girl as he followed her in.
They walked hand in hand toward the counter, smiling faintly at her but saying nothing at first. They didn't seem to be asking for directions after all.
They stopped, inexplicably, in front of the counter, looking up at the sign that read "Film Du Jour (Today's Movie)."
The girl took off her hat, revealing thick brown braids and a bright, sweet face.
Then she spoke, her voice soft and sweet, like a handful of freshly picked cherries still glistening with dew.
The clerk heard her ask, in English: "Which one should we choose?"
"Is there something in particular you want to see?" the boy asked, his voice as crisp as ice-cold sparkling water.
A handsome face, the clerk thought, sneaking another glance or two, her irritation at being disturbed finally giving way.
The boy's eyes swept the schedule on the notice board; then he tilted his head and looked at the girl with a smile, saying nothing.
Oh, that look! As if she held some secret nectar he was determined to taste.
Showing off their love this early in the morning—honestly. The clerk clicked her tongue.
"I haven't seen any of these. They're all new this year, and I don't even know what they're about." Hermione's eyes moved back and forth across the titles, and she tossed the decision back to him with a mischievous smile. "You choose, Draco. Men first today."
"Cruel girl, putting me on the spot." Draco's face flushed faintly. He scanned the board and settled on the film with the earliest showing. "How about *The Horseman on the Roof*?"
"All right," Hermione said, "but I can't promise it won't be a tragedy—you'd better be prepared."
"That's fine. Anything's fine," he said, smiling at her. "As long as I'm watching it with you. Want some popcorn?"
Ten minutes later, she carried a bucket of Muggle popcorn and he carried two large cups of Muggle soda. Like any Muggle couple killing time at the cinema, they walked hand in hand into the dark screening room.
The room was empty. Following the suddenly enthusiastic clerk's advice, they made their way to the best seats, dead center.
"You never warned me that going to the movies was such a dangerous activity." In the dark, he let her lead him carefully up the steps, grumbling the whole way. "I thought this was supposed to be a bright, colorful, moving picture. Why can't I see anything in here?"
"You have to be patient—there'll be light soon. The darkness is only temporary," Hermione said cheerfully, using the dim footlights to find her way, holding his hand tightly as she tested each step. "Just follow me. Victory's just ahead."
When they reached their seats, light appeared up front.
Soon, images, shadows, and sound filled the screen.
The movie began.
"Do Muggles use a developing potion too?" Draco asked after a while, tilting his head in confusion. "They're holding their poses for a remarkably long time."
"No, I don't think it has anything to do with our developing potion. They use film." Hermione leaned in to whisper against the noise of the soundtrack, a note of pride in her voice. "It's all genuine Muggle work. Not bad, right?"
"Not bad." Draco sat very still, a little tense at her closeness. He realized, all at once, that in this large, dim room it seemed as though only the two of them existed.
And she was sitting so close to him.
"My French isn't very good yet." She leaned in closer, moved the armrest out of the way behind her back, and rested her head happily on his shoulder. "What did that line mean?"
He explained quietly. "He was born into nobility. His father died at war… his mother was a strong and clever woman… and then—his best friend betrayed him…"
He translated for her, sneaking glances at her face as he spoke.
She looked completely absorbed, the light from the screen flickering across her features, her eyes shining as she watched.
The moment they'd sat down, he'd sensed something different in her—she seemed as at ease as if she were home.
Draco had the strange feeling that she must have seen a great deal of this Muggle entertainment before.
"Do you like this kind of thing—movies?" he asked quietly, during a lull in the dialogue.
"Yes, very much. I've loved them since I was little." Hermione smiled. "Dad always said you can see all sorts of lives in movies. Mum told me that even if I couldn't actually live a Muggle life, I could at least have a two-hour dream of one. And I've had so many different dreams already…"
In the flickering light, a faint trace of melancholy crossed her face.
That wasn't a good sign. Draco suddenly felt uneasy.
What did she mean by that tone? As though she were genuinely disappointed she couldn't be a Muggle.
Would she rather be a Muggle than a witch? Surely not, Draco thought.
Hadn't she once told him, in the Room of Requirement, that she was happy to be a witch and to witness all these wonders? He searched his memory anxiously.
"If... you hadn't become a witch... and hadn't come to study at Hogwarts..." he began abruptly.
He knew it was a foolish question even as he asked it, but he couldn't help himself.
"Oh, then I might have gone to Oxford or Cambridge—the two best universities in the British Muggle world—and studied history or something, like an ordinary Muggle." She said it lightly, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Studying history—it sounded like a "very interesting" path, Draco thought sourly.
If she hadn't become a witch, she likely would have ended up pursuing some Muggle career as incomprehensible to him as her parents'.
Her expression in that moment seemed almost wistful, as though her magical talent were something she could just as easily have done without.
The Draco of his previous life would never have believed there was anything in the Muggle world a wizard might envy.
But having lived through everything he had, he could no longer dismiss the thought so easily.
At least in the Muggle world, there probably wouldn't be madmen wanting to hurt her, to cut her arm open, or werewolves eyeing her like prey; no one would think her inferior, since her brilliance there would be just as undeniable; and she wouldn't need to chase Muggle dreams through something as small as a "movie."
The thought tightened something in his chest. He felt unsettled.
He glanced at her, frowning slightly. Watching the film, she looked like a glass doll caught in a dream, radiating an ethereal joy that seemed to have swallowed her whole.
That expression made him feel, suddenly, that she was very far away.
In an instant, his possessiveness flared. He reached out and pulled her into his arms, his hands closing gently around her cool shoulders, drawing her closer, deeper against him.
Oh, Hermione—soft and sweet-smelling as the finest soufflé in a shop window. Holding her made him feel a little steadier.
She was still his, whole and unbroken—not shattered by any sudden cruelty, not dissolved into smoke and lost to some Muggle dream.
Hermione didn't object. The air conditioning in the theater was strong, and her shoulders had gone cold; his arms simply warmed her. He was always so considerate.
She sighed contentedly, nestling into his neck to find a more comfortable spot, wrapping her arms around his waist and settling into his embrace as she went back to watching the film.
"What does that mean? What did they just say?" she asked again, curious.
"He's apologizing for his recklessness…" Draco tried to push the unease aside, sweeping it hastily to the back of his mind, and went on. "He was frightened and wanted to leave, but he stayed in the end—he wants to protect her."
"I thought so." She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, delight in her voice. "I understood that part about protecting her right from the start."
"Very good," he said slowly, and fell quiet for a moment.
"But what are they arguing about? Weren't they just working together to get away?" she asked, pulling him out of his silence again.
"She's very strong-willed. She doesn't like being protected all the time—even though she clearly has no idea how to fend off an attack from a flock of crows." Draco's fingers traced gently over her shoulder. "Are all girls this stubborn?"
"Yes, I understand her completely," Hermione said. "She's independent. She doesn't want to be a burden to anyone."
"Even so, people always need a little help sometimes. One tree doesn't make a forest—you can't do everything alone, can you?" Draco said slowly. "Isn't it better to combine strengths? Stubbornness for its own sake isn't a good thing."
"Fine, you might have a point. They did end up working together in the end, and she didn't dig her heels in forever." Hermione sounded only half-convinced. She muttered a few more words of protest before turning back to the screen.
Draco wanted to lose himself in the film with her too, but he couldn't quite manage it.
Stepping into this corner of her world—one she clearly knew so well—was strange and new to him, and in the process he began to sense just how deeply attached she was to the Muggle world.
In his presence, she never hid her admiration for Muggle things.
What was almost alarming was how naturally she lived without magic, with no sign of discomfort at all—the easy, unthinking way she made phone calls or dried her hair.
She seemed to long for the same ordinary Muggle lives portrayed in these films. Perhaps she simply thought differently from most witches, and genuinely wished she could live freely as a Muggle.
After all, Hermione's life in the Muggle world had been a happy one, both in terms of success and in the warmth of her family—the Grangers were, in every sense, happier and more harmonious than many pure-blood wizarding families. There was an ease there that the Malfoy family had always lacked.
Draco had never seriously considered the possibility before, but now he had to: she might prefer the prosperous, peaceful, fast-moving Muggle world she so often described, over the backward, corrupt, and broken wizarding world she'd come to know.
In her previous life, she'd had no choice but to attend Hogwarts, which had kept her tied to the wizarding world. But once she graduated, with her intelligence and talent, a life in the Muggle world would hardly be difficult for her.
*What if she simply leaves after graduation?* Draco wondered suddenly, a chill running down his spine.
Perhaps she would grow weary of this dangerous, prejudiced, unequal wizarding world, and find a far more respectable life back in the one she came from—rising further, more easily, more fully...
Lost in this spiral of thought, a cold, sinking feeling settled over his heart.
"What is it?" Hermione looked up and noticed his frown, his suddenly serious expression.
What was wrong with him? She didn't like that look on his face at all.
The film did touch on heavy themes—war, illness, death, humanity's fear of things beyond its control—but she still loved his smile far more.
"Draco, don't you like the movie?" she asked quietly.
"I like it," he said, the worry still lingering in his eyes.
So she reached up, kissed the corner of his mouth lightly, and pulled away quickly. Draco startled at the sudden touch, but the kiss chased the frustration from his face, and the crease in his brow finally eased.
"They were ruled by fear of death—they set a fire and fled in the chaos," he said, regaining some of his earlier warmth as he went back to translating for her.
"A little mad, isn't it?" she said, laughing softly, and popped a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.
On screen, the hero and heroine were running for their lives, the scene tense and thrilling—but she kept glancing at him instead, to check on his expression.
"Mad… but it works." Draco obediently chewed the sweet snack, deciding it wasn't bad at all. He watched the screen, breathing in the scent of her hair, his expression softening.
Hermione hugged him again and said lazily, "What should I do? I want some soda, but I don't want to let go of you."
The girl had her own little scheme—keep him busy, so he wouldn't have room left to worry.
Draco indulged her without complaint. He freed one hand to lift her soda cup and guide the straw to her lips.
She laughed, took two sips, and then started bossing him into doing the next thing—"popcorn."
He unwrapped the wet wipes the clerk had given them, cleaned his hands, and fed her popcorn one kernel at a time, the very picture of devoted attentiveness.
"Look at this," she said with a grin after a while of being fed. "The most considerate boyfriend in the world."
"Look at this," he said softly, somewhere between exasperated and pleased. "The most demanding girlfriend in the world."
Draco had to admit he had something of a soft spot for "feeding her"—it gave him a strange satisfaction.
Besides, the way she asked for it now was rather endearing.
Draco Malfoy would always love how Hermione Granger needed him, depended on him.
"You got my fingers sticky on purpose, didn't you—that was the whole plan." Pleased as he was, he kept up his arrogant front on the surface, picking up another kernel and feeding it to her gently. "But now we're out of wet wipes. What are we supposed to do? This is your fault."
That wasn't fair. How could he blame her? Hermione thought, indignant—he'd eaten plenty too, even if she'd fed him more often, and for longer.
She decided she'd correct the record and not let him cling to that complaint.
The next moment, Draco's muttering cut off—her teeth had closed gently around his finger.
He sounded thoroughly startled. "Hermione, what are you doing?"
He meant to pull his hand back; he was sure he could, with a little effort. But his fingers seemed to have ideas of their own, frozen in place, afraid to move.
Her lips were so soft—his fingers had no desire to hurt them.
"Cleaning it," she said around his finger, sucking absently.
"Merlin!" Draco's eyes widened.
He could feel her tongue, soft and warm, tracing his fingertip. He could feel her teeth grazing lightly, almost teasing. He could feel the heat of her mouth.
For a moment he felt like a kernel of popcorn about to pop.
All his worries and doubts had vanished, and any thought of Muggle questions had become entirely beyond him.
His whole focus had narrowed to that one finger—or perhaps somewhere else entirely.
It felt as if every scattered piece of him had rushed from his limbs straight to that fingertip, only to be swept away by her in an instant.
Her tongue, he thought hazily, was remarkably skilled. It even circled.
Damn it, she could actually do that—so lively and gentle, so close and intimate.
A wicked thought stirred in him—he wanted her to try something else entirely. He knew the thought was dangerous, and absolutely something he could never let her see.
He tried a deep breath to steady himself, but his heart was racing. His other hand curled into a fist against her shoulder, restraining the urge to grip her face too tightly.
Merlin, this was sheer torment.
He was certain now she must be some kind of siren. If they hadn't been in public, he might have wanted to return the favor—torment her properly, enough to make her cry.
His mind filled with reckless fantasies, even as some part of him knew he'd never actually act on them.
Hermione kept at it until his finger no longer carried any trace of the sweet popcorn syrup.
For some reason he'd gone very tense, the kind of restless tension that makes a person shift in their seat. He'd dropped his hands from her shoulders and curled them into fists at his sides instead.
What was wrong? She lifted her eyes to look at him and found his pupils blown wide and dark, nothing like their usual pale gray.
Not that it didn't suit him, she thought—he looked good even like this, no trace of melancholy left.
There was even a kind of excitement on his face.
He's just like a little kid, she thought. She'd spent only a short while absorbed in the movie, barely paying attention to him, and already he was sulking.
He only perks up when I play along with him for a bit, doesn't he? she thought.
"Sweet. Tastes like popcorn." She finally released his finger, delivering her honest verdict, then rubbed her cheek against his shoulder again.
She sensed, without quite knowing why, that he'd gone rigid.
"Yes," Draco said softly, his cheeks burning, his mind blank.
She'd gone too far—how could she do that to him? Having had her fun, she went straight back to watching the film, waving a dismissive hand.
He sat in silence for a while, trying to pour the boiling water out of his head and calm the restless creature pacing inside his chest.
Meanwhile, she'd gone right back to worrying over the plot, as though his current state had become entirely beside the point.
"Oh, she looks sick. So pale. And they've split up—she's all alone now."
"He'll come back for her. He always does—" Draco shook the heat out of his head, pinched his own leg discreetly, and managed a reassuring tone. "I'd bet my hair on it."
"Oh, Draco, you really need to stop betting your hair on things," Hermione said, laughing as the hero reappeared on screen. "Be kinder to it."
"I just wanted to make my certainty clear," Draco said quietly, straining toward the screen. "See? I told you. He came."
She laughed again, bright and unguarded—a sound that made his head spin.
"So, what did you think? Isn't the Muggle film industry quite advanced?" she asked proudly as they left the theater, putting her hat back on, her eyes bright beneath its brim as she looked up at him.
Her cheeks, like milk pudding, were tinted cherry-blossom pink; her eyes, the color of hazelnut chocolate, left him momentarily speechless.
And then her warm lips delivered the final blow. "Muggles aren't entirely useless, are they?"
"You're right," Draco said absently, feeling thoroughly led by the nose.
This wouldn't do. He couldn't let her be this smug all the time. He tried to regain his footing.
He couldn't let her think the wizarding world was somehow inferior to the Muggle one.
"But at least they don't have flying brooms—they can't simply soar up whenever they like and take in the land below." Draco swallowed and forced the words out. "I know you've mentioned Muggle airplanes, but those aren't something you can fly on a whim. Nowhere near as convenient as a broom. I have my reservations."
"Oh, I see what you mean." Hermione's brow furrowed, a little deflated.
He still wasn't quite convinced of Muggles' ingenuity, she thought.
She pouted at him for a moment—then suddenly spotted the building behind him and had an idea.
"Draco, I know of something that's a bit like a flying broom." Her eyes brightened. "But you have to keep your eyes closed until I get you there. Do you dare?"
Draco looked at her, baffled, unable to guess what she was up to behind that sly smile.
"Why would I close my eyes—you're not planning to trick me, are you?" he asked.
"Absolutely not. Give me some credit! Just close your eyes and follow me for a bit," Hermione said. "Try it—it'll be fun."
Draco studied her for two or three seconds. Her eyes were perfectly open, with no hint of mischief in them. He found it hard to believe she'd do anything to harm him, even while staying wary of the Muggle world's surprises.
"Fine. Only you would dare ask such a thing of me, and only for you would I agree." He muttered it half to himself, feeling a little mad.
Draco closed his eyes there in the middle of the bustling crowd. At once, the noise of the Muggles around him seemed to sharpen, and the heat on his face grew more vivid.
And there was her hand in his, fingers laced together, the sensation of her touch sharper now with his eyes closed.
He could feel the pull of her skin against his—utterly impossible to resist.
"And then?" he asked, a touch of anxiety in his voice.
"Come with me, mind the steps," she whispered, leading him along.
He followed her lead. Her steps were smaller than his, but very sure.
Whenever there were stairs or uneven ground, she warned him carefully ahead of time.
She was so patient and attentive with him. Draco found, to his surprise, that he liked being looked after this way.
Who wouldn't, when she spoke to him so gently?
With his eyes closed, he kept imagining that she was watching his face—though he told himself it was only his imagination.
In fact, she was watching his face. With his eyes shut, he looked a little lost, a little innocent, even a little defenseless.
At that moment, he was a world away from the reckless playboy who'd been so wicked at the hotel the day before.
That look of calm surrender was rare on him—and rather endearing.
It was clear he was trying very hard to trust her.
Hermione had always known Draco to be an extremely guarded person. And yet he let his guard fall completely around her, always willing to close his eyes and show her his softer side.
He always seemed to be offering her, with both hands, a kind of trust that didn't come naturally to Draco Malfoy at all.
He always seemed willing to shed his hard, serpent's skin for her, to bare the tender flesh beneath and let her in, as if afraid his own scales might wound her.
Or perhaps he was more like a hedgehog, carefully lowering its quills, letting her near its soft underside.
Of course she could never bear to hurt him—silly boy, Hermione thought happily.
*I have to live up to that trust.*
Just then, Draco felt her guide him around a corner, laughter threading through her voice.
"Draco, no peeking."
"I'm not peeking," he said, a little guiltily, squeezing his eyes shut again after very nearly doing exactly that.
"Good boy," she said, satisfied.
She was using his own tricks against him—and it was working, he thought, pouting slightly.
He could tell they were walking straight toward a sunlit spot.
The light grew intense. She handed someone a bit of Muggle currency and said "thank you."
She led him up a few steps, counting each one aloud for him.
"All right—no more steps. Now take a big step forward, Draco. Right ahead," she said, gripping his hand firmly.
He stepped forward and felt something hard and faintly unsteady beneath his foot.
"Bring your other foot in too. Good, that's it. Don't worry, I'm right here." She finished speaking and stepped in close, throwing her arms around him.
Draco closed his eyes tighter, lashes trembling, and instinctively pulled her in closer.
"Can I open my eyes yet?" he asked, patient despite himself.
He heard a soft creaking. The floor beneath his feet felt unsteady, as if it were moving.
"Actually, I think you should wait a little longer." She nestled against him, smelling sweet, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "It'll be even better in a moment."
"Merlin, you're tormenting me," Draco said, equal parts unsettled and helpless, and pulled her closer still.
He realized, suddenly, that he could no longer feel direct sunlight.
They must have entered some sort of shelter overhead, he guessed.
He felt a breeze too—not as cool as the cinema's air, nor as sharp as the wind on a broom, but a breeze all the same, granting him a small, illusory sense of freedom.
"Okay—three, two, one—open your eyes!" she said, still in his arms.
Draco opened his eyes slowly and found himself standing in midair.
The floor was made of grayish-white sheet metal, as was the roof above. The sides stood open on all four corners, the view entirely unobstructed. Looking down, he saw the houses and streets of Avignon laid out in neat, orderly rows, like small boxes far below.
"Where—where are we? We're in the sky!" He looked around, startled. From the other side he could make out a white bridge in the distance, sweeping fields of green, and a wide, clear river.
"A Ferris wheel." Hermione draped her arm over his and tipped her head back to smile at him. "A Muggle Ferris wheel. So, are you surprised?"
"That is rather surprising, I'll admit." He smiled, took her hat off, and ruffled her hair.
Her bright, focused smile moved him more than he expected.
Hermione wasn't entirely satisfied with his understated reaction—she'd hoped for more of a gasp.
She wrinkled her nose as he mussed her hair. "I'll admit, it's not as exciting as a flying broom. But don't you think Muggles are impressive too, building these great steel things to look down at the world like this?"
"Yes." Draco tilted his head, studying the other identical cabins along the wheel, a spark of genuine interest in his eyes. "I saw it from the hotel that day and wondered what it could be for. Now I finally know."
Hermione caught that spark of interest, and it lifted her mood at once.
"The view's best at the very top. We're only halfway up now," she said.
Noticing his slightly distracted air, she decided to press him. "You looked rather serious during the movie. Were you thinking about something?"
"Oh—you noticed?" He looked out at the distant river, not quite meeting her eyes.
"It's fine if you don't like Muggle movies," she said quickly. "You don't have to force yourself to like them just because I do—"
"No, I like them," Draco said. "I just have some doubts."
"What kind of doubts? Out with it—no dodging," she said sternly, determined not to let him retreat behind that careful shell of his.
Draco hesitated, then told her the truth. "I was thinking you might prefer being a Muggle to being a witch."
"Why would you think that?" she asked, surprised.
"I'm not sure… I just feel like you have a particular fondness for the Muggle world," he said, uncertain. "These past two days, you've been telling me how convenient it is, how it's just as good as the wizarding world."
"Oh, you silly goose—was that what had you so distracted before?" Hermione laughed, a touch reproachful. "I was showing you these things so you'd understand the Muggle world has its strengths too. I didn't want you stuck looking down on Muggles."
Her eyes narrowed in a smile. "I'll admit it—I've spent all day trying to do one thing. I wanted you to see that some things Muggles do deserve a 'brilliant,' not just a 'barely usable.'"
"Really? That's all this was? You wanted a heartfelt compliment for the Muggles?" Draco asked, surprised.
"Yes. Recognizing how clever Muggles are doesn't mean I'd rather not be a witch," she said softly.
"So you're still glad to be a witch, even with the Muggle world looking so much more open and fair to you?" Draco pressed, still surprised.
He studied her closely once more, his gray eyes intent. "Don't you regret it? You could have had an easier road. A carefree Muggle life."
"What would I want with an easy road?" Hermione said, half amused, half exasperated, a hint of mischief creeping into her voice. "Becoming a witch is the luckiest thing that's ever happened to me. The wizarding world isn't exactly what I'd imagined—it has plenty of flaws, plenty of shortcomings, and it disappoints me sometimes—"
So she still didn't entirely love the wizarding world, as he'd feared.
As the Ferris wheel rose slowly higher, Draco sighed, no longer able to meet her eyes.
"But I met you there. If I'd never become a witch, how would I ever have met you?" She smiled and leaned up to press a light kiss to his lips, then looked at him quietly as he lifted his head and met her gaze.
Pale gold sunlight caught on his lashes, and she could almost hear his heart beating faster. In his eyes, she saw a small reflection of herself.
He looked at her with something close to reverence, as if her words had lit a long-dormant lamp inside him—one engraved with a single wish: *that she would always love him.*
His heart was pounding now, unmistakably, from her kiss and from her eyes alone. Her lips carried the most irresistible taste in the world, and her eyes shone with the most captivating light he knew.
This girl, who could so easily set his heart racing, went on, a touch of pride in her voice now.
"You don't really think I'd leave you over some small flaw in the wizarding world, do you? Draco Malfoy, do you have any idea how happy I am that I met you at Hogwarts? So, so happy. It's a little embarrassing to admit, but… I like you more and more every day. I like you best of all. I only like you."
She'd almost said "love"—but it felt too soon, too careless a word to use before she knew whether he loved her back.
*Then I'll just give him plenty of "likes" instead*, she thought, *and see if that's enough to make him a little happier.*
Draco was stunned by the sudden confession. High above the city, it felt as though some unseen, golden-armed cherub were loosing arrow after arrow straight at his heart—each one striking true, each one drawing a small cheer from every cell inside him.
"Hermione, if you say it, I'll believe it," he said softly, his eyes brimming, hardly able to believe it was real.
How could there exist a girl this radiant, this dreamlike, capable of bringing him so much joy?
For a long, long time, he had believed his heart had dried up and gone cold for good.
But now it burned warm. She had pulled it out of that cold, withered grave, washed it clean, brought it back to life, and warmed it through completely.
And now she plucked at it happily, coaxing it to soar.
Draco Malfoy must have spent the luck of two lifetimes just to be the one who caught Hermione Granger's outstretched hand on the Hogwarts Express.
"I mean it," she said, her face flushing. "I truly like you."
The sky stretched overhead like a canopy, the sunlight dazzling.
The Ferris wheel was nearing its peak.
"I like you too. I truly do. I—" Draco smiled, eyes wet.
He wanted to tell her he loved her—loved her so very much. Loved her honesty and her warmth, her patience, her gentleness, her tenderness toward him.
*I love her smile. I love the way her face turns serious. I love her joy and her sorrow. I love everything about her.*
But the next moment, he froze.
Beneath all that love, a sudden, unfamiliar fear rose in him.
He'd found himself loving her more and more, and just when he thought he'd reached the height of it, another, higher peak appeared before him.
For a moment, the sheer scale of it stunned him—it was simply too unfamiliar a feeling.
He'd never known love could keep climbing like this. That it could have an intensity all its own. And now that intensity was surging, well past any line he'd known before, rising to a point that made his heart shake—rising, even, to a point that frightened him.
*Is this what love feels like?*
*Can love really be this terrifying?*
Even with her right there in his arms, he found himself afraid of losing her—the thought alone enough to crack something open in his chest.
He held her close, forgetting to breathe, his heart caught somewhere between love and fear.
"I—" he managed, his voice catching under the weight of both.
"Wait, I have to kiss you first! Muggle couples always do this at the top of the Ferris wheel." Hermione cut him off, kissing him without hesitation, the taste of popcorn still sweet on her lips.
That sweetness was enough to chase away every trace of unease left in him.
*Thank Merlin for the Ferris wheel rule*, he thought sincerely, losing himself in the kiss.
The wind swept past them, free and open, and the fear melted away like smoke, if only for now.
He kissed her deeply, as if some distant music had begun playing somewhere just for them.
He held his once-lost rib close against his chest and kissed her, his eyes still wet.
In that moment, Draco Malfoy knew with absolute certainty that he could never accept losing her. Never.
Caught up in the kiss, the boy was shouting a single word inside his own heart. If anyone had been able to open it and listen, they would have heard that word in every breath he took: *love.*
So they kissed, and reached the top together.
The very top of the city.
The very peak of love.